Xiu Xiu are what many would call a success story. After all, they’ve evolved from an experimental, rotating-cast freakshow who appealed only to the outer edge of musical snobs and depressed hipsters, to a full-on, four member, MySpace friendly, blog-writing, book- producing, ceaselessly collaborating, networking whirlwind with legions of fans and the respect of critics. Not only that, but unlike some rise-to-glory stories, Xiu Xiu’s transformation has been nice to see, mostly because founding member Jamie Stewart and able sidekick Caralee McElroy always seemed to be having a lot of fun, connecting well with their fans and managing to maintain their sense of humor and their honesty.

But somewhere along the path to Women as Lovers, Xiu Xiu lost a little bit of their subtlety. Though all the band’s hallmarks—the experimentation, the grab-bag electronics and waves of unconventional percussion, the impassioned vocals complete with über-weirdo lyrics—are still there, something vital is missing. Could it be that fame, success, and comfort corrupted Xiu Xiu’s artistic process? That doesn’t seem to fit the still-odd Stewart and McElroy. But what about those two new permanent band members—could they have caused an unnecessary bloating of the music, as if the band weren’t quite ready to absorb all the new hands in the studio? Quite possibly. Regardless of cause, one of the most endearing aspects of Xiu Xiu—their utter vulnerability—has been replaced with a steady confidence.

This is not to say that Women as Lovers is a bad album. It is actually quite fine, as it has enough strangeness to appeal to those who appreciate strangeness, and enough adorableness to appeal to those who appreciate adorableness. Lead track “I Do What I Want When I Want,” complete with shared vocals, a near-perfect progression, no shortage of surprise, and Ornette Coleman-style saxophone, is a fantastic art-pop song. “No Friend Oh!,” whose title hearkens back to earlier albums, is a joy and experience to hear, a song with just enough head-shaking moments to feel like true-to-life Xiu Xiu. “Black Keyboard,” despite its disturbing lyrics, and “You Are Pregnant You, You Are Dead” are also excellent additions to the band’s catalog.

With all that strength, it’s hard to see what doesn’t feel right about this album. But something definitely isn’t quite right, and there’s a good chance the problem lies with the cover song blaring from the album’s center. “Under Pressure,” the David Bowie standard whose beat was made doubly famous by Vanilla Ice, makes for a well-done and interesting cover, all the way down to the exceptional vocal turn by Angels of Light and ex-Swans frontman Michael Gira. But what happens is that Women as Lovers feels less like a complete album and more like a collection of songs. Other moments in the album, including the irritating “Puff and Bunny,” in which Stewart repeats the words “hot pepper” a painful number of times, also lead to the disconnected feel of the album. And this effect, especially in comparison to their previous albums, is pretty jarring.

So it seems this is what happens when a band has established itself as being really, really good—they release an album that is only merely good, and people are annoyed. But that’s the price to pay for success—you better not display imperfection, because if you do you’ll be called on it. And so it is with Xiu Xiu, one of the most excellent and fascinating bands of the decade, and one that still holds that trophy. Even if the trophy isn’t quite as shiny as it used to be.

Xiu Xiu [Official] [Label] [MySpace] [Download Site]

Okay, before we begin, there are some things we must know about El Guincho. First of all, El Guincho is one man, Pablo Díaz-Reixa, and he named his album after the uninhabited island of Alegranza, which is at the northeastern tip of the Canary Islands, which are—of course this is common knowledge—an autonomous domain of Spain located on the west coast of Africa. Díaz-Reixa is from these Canary Islands, and, via Barcelona, he creates swirling and excitable indie pop using loops and samples and an amalgam of musical influences ranging from Benga (Kenyan traditional music) to Bhangra (Indian folk) to any brand of tropicalia that flies well above the head of our good friend Jimmy Buffett.

All of this crazy backstory, and El Guincho still can’t seem to shake comparisons to Panda Bear—the “Spanish Panda Bear,” he’s been called. The Person Pitch parallels, despite the fact that there remains little coverage in English on El Guincho, have been mentioned so thoroughly by now that it’s practically mandated by law that every review gives a nod to the idea, an idea which to its inventor probably seemed pretty clever. But really, outside of the compositional technique and a layered load of repetition, there really isn’t too much tying these two machine-musicians together. El Guincho is an artist all his own, and discussing his music only in the context of someone else is a disservice, especially when one realizes that Alegranza is one of the most unique and fascinating albums to come out in a long time.

So if this isn’t really like Panda Bear (or Os Mutantes, or Beirut, or any of the other ridiculous comparisons people are throwing out there in an effort to quantify the album), what is it like? Well, there’s certainly an element of the circus here, an unabashed fun and playfulness that’s hard to find on most sample-based electronic releases. And that’s probably the most striking aspect of El Guincho—much like his funny-to-say band name, the music here is decidedly light-hearted. This means that all the dour indie fans whose pockets are full of angst and agony will probably check this disc at the door. But it also offers a much-needed dose of positivity and play that too often is absent from the oft-schizophrenic art-music scene.

Ultimately, songs like “Fata Morgana,” which starts softly and eventually rampages into a colorful steel drum salute, “Antillas,” a meditative study in repetitive excess, and “Buenos Matrimonios Ahi Fuera” which cruises along effortlessly with child vocals, are proof that computer-crafted music doesn’t have to be lifeless. Because although surely El Guincho crafts his loops and distorts his samples in a solitary world of meticulous detail and independent thought, his tunes are made for the streets, the clubs, the plazas, the alleyways. And this fact seems perfect: after all, that empty island he named the album after? Alegranza, derived from the Spanish, means “joy.”

[El Guincho's MySpace]
[Download Site (album is sold out in Europe, and unreleased in America)]
[His blog (which is in Spanish, and is pretty crazy if you use an online translator)]

This thingy here is mostly me thinking aloud (but not really aloud, now) about the nature of poetry publication in literary journals, and how the tendency to publish “one-off” poems rather than poems that are part of a bigger project, as well as the tendency to publish single poems rather than multiple poems by a single poet, is acting to undermine both poets and the journals who love them. Sure, this notion has arisen because of the my own publishing experiences; after all, continuing is the utterly disturbing trend of poems I consider “substandard” or “not-aligned-with-my-greater-projects” being published, while poems I believe are of greater substance wallow in unpublished nothingness. And although I take the blame for most of these occurrences, I think the aforementioned way journals go about filling their poetry-dedicated pages is not to be underestimated as a cause of the problem.

As for poems that are part of a larger sequence or project, I think the easiest explanation is that because the poems that comprise larger projects are, in fact, part of something larger, they are therefore prone to being less capable of standing alone. Yet I believe a more complicated explanation is that the themes of “project poems” tend to be more complex, or drawn out, or contextually-oriented to the project’s bigger picture, whereas the “one-off poems” are usually simple little ditties with a bite-size idea. They are pop songs.

But it’s frustrating nonetheless, because poets focused on publishing a book are more inclined to write albums than singles. But literary reviews really love their singles, and this is due in large part to their nasty propensity of publishing “poems” rather than “poets,” which results in a journal dedicating, say, fifty pages to poetry that features 46 lyric poems by 42 different poets. It’d be much better, in my opinion, if journals aimed to publish a poetic vision rather than just a lyric they happen to enjoy—this way a reader can recognize a poet’s identity, rather than getting maybe thirty lines and a significant likelihood of forgetting the poet’s name. It’s like getting a mix tape: yeah, you love the variety, but you probably aren’t going to constantly check the tracklist to see who you’re listening to.

So how about this: fifty pages, ten poets. Yes, that means everyone’s cover letter inevitably looks a lot less impressive, but there are several obvious benefits to be had, both for the journal and for the writer. First of all—and this seems funny to even say—the writer might actually give a damn when the journal arrives in the mail. And not because he or she would get to drool over more pages of his or her own work, but because it would be more interesting to see what other poets in the journal have to offer; you’d actually have the opportunity to develop a relationship with a companion poet’s work over the course of several poems. You’d also be pretty safe to assume that the editors were looking for cohesion in the issue, so it would help you reflect more thoroughly on your own work and its place in that particular issue, and the journal’s aesthetic as a whole.

Secondly, the personal relationship between a journal and a poet would be enhanced, because it takes a substantial commitment on both sides to make fifty pages/ten poets happen. It’s a commitment on the part of the journal not only because they are giving up more pages to each poet, but they also are relinquishing the habit of publishing “singles.” It would require a heightened degree of journalistic confidence in a writer’s vision, which would mean that they would be publishing probably at least a couple of a poet’s poems that they are only “iffy” on; but they would do this because those “iffy” poems are part of the vision, and offer the pros and cons of a bigger picture. It would also make an individual poet more likely to support the journal in the future, because publication would be more of an event and less of a “whatever.” As for the poet, the commitment is huge—to give multiple poems to one journal means that those poems are not going to be published elsewhere. It really is putting a lot of eggs in one basket, but the hope is that that basket will actually garner more exposure, because rather than being one easily-skippable page in three different journals, with two of the poems never being accepted for publication, you have five hard-to-ignore pages in one journal.

Of the more than 180 poetry-publishing journals with which I am familiar, no more than ten truly operate in this “poets-rather-than-poems” manner. The most notable of these is probably The Missouri Review, which has a long-standing history of pushing poets to the next level; after all, if you can say that you were published in The Missouri Review, you are saying that you were a featured poet who can offer not only flashes of lyric brilliance, but a consistent strength and unity of vision. But, to be honest, it is difficult to submit to this journal—they ask for 12-20 pages of poetry, and that’s a hell of a lot to put out there, even if they only take five or six pages. And surely, if every journal worked like this, it would be far more difficult to manage simultaneous submissions, as the clerical end of the deal would get to be very challenging. But ultimately, the relationship between journal and poet would be amplified, and the poet would be given more of an opportunity to become stylistically recognizable—especially to the casual journal reader who only has one or maybe two subscriptions (or, more likely, none), rather than forty; and this chance to have breadth revealed must be better than being just another insignificant name on a long list of one-offs.

Say you’re drunk. Or, better yet, you just woke up after one of those Mexican Martini nights, so it’s one of those mornings where the sun, you’re sure, is already blazing its blaze just beyond your bedroom window, yet you can only spot a squeak of it through the blinds, and that little bit of light is really all you handle. Anything more would send you into full-on fury, but that special kind of fury where you can’t really do anything, because, truly, you feel like shit.

The Magnetic Fields’ new album, Distortion, seems to have been composed on such a morning. But no, this isn’t a bad thing. If you think about it, some of the purest and most unadulterated moments come when in this most unpleasant of states; after all, reason is out and only absolute animalness and grouchiness and even a bit of self-loathing humor can be had. In music, you could say it’s a place where melodies are simple and indulgently satisfying, while the themes are effortlessly and simultaneously tragic and comic. And Distortion gets right at all of it, right down in its crusty center. True, the entirety of the album is covered in a fog, a thick haze of crunch and—who would’ve guessed it—distortion.

The fact that The Magnetic Fields are legends is and is not beside the point. Their epic 1999 release 69 Love Songs—a triple album magnum opus of range and obsession and theatricality and depression and joy—set the bar pretty high for lead man Stephin Merritt, and he’s struggled a little to get back to that apex. 2004’s i was an all-acoustic affair that felt a little too soft, and besides that we’ve only caught brief glimpses of the band in the twenty-first century, a fact that’s pretty shocking considering the fact that Merritt, with the help of three other occasional lead vocalists, came out with sixty-nine songs in one year. So, to say that Distortion is a return to form wouldn’t be fair, but to say that it’s a very nice album would be.

The album begins with the triumphant and mostly wordless “Three-Way,” a song which in its own conceit stands as a harbinger of the music to come, while tracks such as “Old Fools,” “Please Stop Dancing,” and “Drive On, Driver”—one of several songs ably sung by Shirley Simms—are signature Magnetic Fields songs blanketed in that relentless haze. There are a couple misses here, as “California Girls” (chorus: “I hate California girls”) and “Mr. Mistletoe” are either too over-the-top or too medicated to survive their own confidence. But the album holds together quite well, with or without the uniform distortion.

Truth be told, Stephin Merritt’s work feels a little out of place in 2008, as it doesn’t feature all the bells and whistles of present-day indie. But, surprisingly enough, that’s really refreshing. It’s just music, and honesty, and a damn-bad hangover. And Merritt puts the reason for the hangover, and the haze of the album, in perfect focus with the chorus of “Too Drunk to Dream”: “I’ve got to get too drunk to dream / cuz dreaming only gets me blue / I’ve got to get too drunk to dream / because I only dream of you / I got to get too pissed to miss you / or I’ll never get to sleep / I’ve got to drink wine not to pine for you / and god knows that ain’t cheap.” And so it goes.

More about The Magnetic Fields: Official Website or MySpace

To download this album via Daily Dose, click here.

Burial – Untrue

Propelled by striking percussion and haunting vocal samples, Untrue wraps its listener in mystery and the feeling that something very wrong is going on nearby, something very passionate and very disturbing. Repetitive but diverse, this slow-working incantation almost wants to be dance hall-ready dubstep, but escapes that label by featuring enough interlocking rhythms and ambient moments to make dancing difficult. But, more than anything, the album is just too damn emotionally-intense for the club.

Drowning absolutely everything in reverb, Untrue feels like music from the afterlife, transported directly to you for the purpose of promoting unease. But the mystery of Burial extends far beyond its lost-in-the-abandoned-factory eeriness—no one knows who Burial is. And this anonymity and distance is perfect for this album, one that never ceases to be both pleading and forlorn, lovely and despairing.

September Collective – All the Birds Were Anarchists

At times almost unconscionably beautiful, the piano-driven All the Birds Were Anarchists is what happens when laptops go right—using naturally constructed sonics and an air of the haphazard, the humanness behind the album is never lost. This first release by September Collective—a side project of the more well-known Barbara Morgenstern—serves as a soothing backdrop to everything else’s endless racket, and is a piece of work that upon close inspection exceeds its delicate initial impression. And although this may be an album that won’t immediately lift you from your seat in a fit of applause, its complicated tapestry of subtleties is sure to grow on you.

Andrew Bird – Armchair Apochrypha

Few in indie music today are so obviously intelligent as the Chicago-based Andrew Bird, a man whose meticulously-crafted music transmits a genuine air of intellect. Far from willing to rest on the laurels of his previous album, he’s taken this impression to a new level with the sneaky Armchair Apocrypha, an album that at first may seem too clean, but eventually grabs you by the throat and holds on until it’s too late. And that, when it comes to incredibly well-structured and intricate songs with spot-on lyricism, is a good thing.

With a slew of quotables (”thank god it’s fatal,” “time’s a crooked boat,” etc.) and a distinct awareness of the album structure as a whole, Armchair Apocrypha is an at-times-poppy and at-times-heartbreaking journey of an album. Using practically equal parts violin, piano, and guitar to drive the songs, Bird has expanded the palette of his previous albums, while intensifying the seriousness and complexity of his songs. And, because of this, he has created a work worthy of a good fifty or sixty straight-through listens. At least.

Do Make Say Think – You, You’re a History in Rust

Do Make Say Think have carved themselves a fine little niche in the post-rock world, gathering fans over the years with jazz-and-rock-influenced instrumental opuses. And You, You’re a History in Rust maintains this momentum and develops it with a not-to-be-underestimated sense of balance and consistency. Pretty much, if you want some instrumental music you can rock out to—and something a little more varied than Explosions in the Sky— this is your place to go.

Built around the relentlessly intense “The Universe!”—a song which blends cascading guitars with a two-drummer setup to fill a room with noise, and offer a thrashing counterpoint to the slow-burners of the rest of the album—You, You’re a History in Rust is the work of very skilled musicians doing what they do. And while they cheat on one song by using vocals (how dare they!), this is still an album you should reach for when you want to get the blood pumping, but not the mind tripping over words.

Panda Bear – Person Pitch

When it comes to describing Person Pitch, you may use words like “delirious” or “psychotic” or “eastern,” or phrases like “techno blender” or “synthetic eeriness.” Hell, you may even say it’s “like a post-enlightenment Brian Wilson in a playground of crayola-colors, loops, and high-grade ecstasy.” But really, when it comes to Panda Bear’s statement album—one that ensures he’ll never again be simply an Animal Collective side project—none of those flailing attempts at description seem to grasp what’s going on.

Person Pitch is one of those albums where an entire article could be written about each track, from the bouncy “Comfy in Nautica,” to the devastating thirteeen minute shock of “Bros” (perhaps the most captivating—and seizure-inducing—song of the year), all the way through to its subtle tail end. Said simply, Person Pitch just plain kicks its listener in the gut. And while the mystery of the album was perhaps enhanced by Panda’s near-refusal to tour in support of it, that’s just fine by me—when I can remember thinking way back in March, “There’s no way in hell this isn’t going to be one of the top five albums of the year,” that’s a pretty good sign something strangely brilliant is happening.

Sunset Rubdown – Random Spirit Lover

And this is quite possibly the best album of the year, as well as one of the most shockingly overlooked. You can read about it here.

* * *

And here’s a list of some other albums of 2007 it would be wrong not to mention:

MGMT’s Oracular Spectacular
Caribou’s Andorra
Animal Collective’s Strawberry Jam
Of Montreal’s Hissing Fauna, Are You the Destroyer
Kanye West’s Graduation
Deerhoof’s Friend Opportunity
The National’s Boxer
Sage Francis‘ Human the Death Dance

Note: This is part three of a many-parted series discussing practical issues revolving around the family, such as the effects of suburbanization and corporatization on family happiness, divorce as a social phenomenon, the frailties of inner-city households, and the role of the father. No sources will be cited, but they do exist, somewhere. The ideas and thoughts proposed in this series are rhetorical and do not necessarily reflect the beliefs of Tier 3.

Suburbanization, characterized by “white flight,” brought the family out of the cramped confines and distasteful diversity of the city and into the endless optimism of tract housing, not to mention the joys of grass-mowing and shrub-clipping. The initial influx of people to the newly sprawling suburbs was indeed founded in a sort of boundless optimism—the opportunity to have private space under the premise of family wholeness, moral righteousness, and mutual satisfaction. Yet while these ideals fed the burgeoning bridge between city life and rural life, the promise of family unity soon became no more valid than a promise made by a politician: sounds good on paper, and turns the heads of the populous, but ultimately fails to live up to its own rhetoric. Instead of offering the family a chance to bond—as the advent of architectural adjustments favoring the family, such as the aptly named “family room,” would suggest—the prideful seclusion of suburban life instead led to a realization of the impossibilities of equal happiness among members of a family unit. The family unit, despite the obvious commonalities among its members, is comprised of people of different ages, aims, and agendas—to expect these people to provide, in relative isolation, all of an individual’s emotional necessities is not only uninformed but flatly absurd. Truly, rather than embracing the responsibility for family members’ well-being, the family members became suffocated under the unreasonable expectations and were driven from each other, not only emotionally but spatially within the home. Whereas in the pre-suburban days the home was divided into various purpose-specific rooms, thus thrusting upon family members shared space whether they liked it or not, the suburban lifestyle unexpectedly saw the family splinter in whatever way possible, each member retreating to his or her own room and letting the door shut not-so-silently in its wake.

And so hope died. The man’s sphere and the women’s sphere became further separated and the increasingly longer commute to and from work made leisure time all the more sparse. The side effects of this are many, including additional estrangement from the family and the high pressure placed on “quality time,” which saw parents attempt to make up for a lack of presence by relying on the inconsistent binge relationship. These attempts met with mixed results, but often found the cynical teenager unimpressed and annoyed by the thought. Ultimately, the privacy offered by the expansive lawn and even the picket fence were accepted gratefully, albeit gravely, in exchange for community; it seems, almost, that the family values so effusively espoused by mid-century residential developers were always more in communion with community than with isolation of the family itself, and the latter was therefore overlooked as a factor. And thus, the rise in divorce and the separation of child from parent and parent from extended family.

Up next in Family Dynamics: The Television Revolution

File courtesy of http://i21.tinypic.com/wjyvqw.gif; thanks to AG for spotting it

Menomena’s “Evil Bee” may be the most rewatchable music video of the year, as its visual and thematic appeal are on par with each other, and the positivity of its middle provides ample setup for the inevitability of its conclusion. Although its “trapped in life/work” message isn’t terribly new, and even some of its tropes feel familiar, the artistic eye-candy of this video make it a fascinating watch.

And this might just be the worst music video of the year, and that’s why it’s so good. The incomparable Snoop Dogg and his “Sensual Seduction” lampoons the most embarrassing of 1980’s music video techniques to craft a work so wrought with irony that it’s hardly watchable. But at the same time, you have to appreciate his sense of humor, and his willingness to go all the way with something so ridiculous.

Interviews: Battles‘ John Stanier. or Fiery Furnaces‘ Matthew Friedberger.

Album Reviews: Random Spirit Lover by Sunset Rubdown. or Night Falls Over Kortedala by Jens Lekman. or Shelter from the Ash by Six Organs of Admittance. or Love Is Simple by Akron/Family. or Liars by Liars. or Widow City by Fiery Furnaces. or In the Vines by Castanets.

Concert Reviews: Joanna Newsom. or Of Montreal. or Cat Power. or Final Fantasy. or Explosions in the Sky. or MGMT. or Ocote Soul Sound.

* * *

Touch faces like the blind touch faces.
Say to everyone you’re very beautiful

because you know no better.
Forget that mothers won’t admit

everyone considers the end from time to time.
Don’t wonder what it would feel like.

And don’t worry:
at too-soon passing, most people fail.

So look up, sunflower,
before your neck is broken by expectation—

skyscraper faces mirror automobiles
as they float by,

their steel swimming like barracudas
just below the water’s surface.

Do you see how their scales shimmer,
how their teeth are bared?

———————————————————————————

[this poem originally appeared in the Spring 2005(!) issue of Pebble Lake Review.]

Could it be the most important word? The most misrepresented? Do dictionary definitions necessarily imply a personable or human-like God? Something tied to mythology or free of story-telling? What does the Random House Unabridged Dictionary have to say?

God - noun, interjection god/ Pronunciation Key - Show Spelled Pronunciation

verb: god·ded, god·ding

[Origin: before 900; Middle English, Old English; c. D "god", G "Gott", ON "goth", Goth "guth"]

–noun

1. the one Supreme Being, the creator and ruler of the universe.

2. the Supreme Being considered with reference to a particular attribute: the God of Islam.

3. (lowercase) one of several deities, esp. a male deity, presiding over some portion of worldly affairs.

4. (often lowercase) a supreme being according to some particular conception: the god of mercy.

5. Christian Science. the Supreme Being, understood as Life, Truth, Love, Mind, Soul, Spirit, Principle.

6. (lowercase) an image of a deity; an idol.

7. (lowercase) any deified person or object.

Or how about these noun definitions, from The American Heritage Dictionary?:

1. A being conceived as the perfect, omnipotent, omniscient originator and ruler of the universe, the principal object of faith and worship in monotheistic religions.

2. The force, effect, or a manifestation or aspect of this being.

–verb (used with object)

1. (lowercase) to regard or treat as a god; deify; idolize.

–interjection

1. (used to express disappointment, disbelief, weariness, frustration, annoyance, or the like): God, do we have to listen to this nonsense?

First record of “Godawful” is from 1878; “Godspeed” is from c.1470; “God-fearing” is attested from 1835; “God bless you” after someone sneezes is credited to St. Gregory the Great, but the pagan Romans and Greeks had similar customs.

Not surprisingly, the dictionary study is inconclusive and partisan towards a monotheistic creator-based interpretation. And there’s little doubt that this is the most prevalent view of God in America, therefore making that definition valid. But this “definitive” approach is indeed primarily Western, what with the puppeteer and deterministic connotations of the word “ruler.” Also, referring to”God” as a “Being” implies something quantifiable. But of course, all of this can be argued on any number of semantic and philosophical levels. Like, God, do we have to listen to this nonsense?

Information from various original sources compiled here. William Blake, who last week turned 250, is responsible for the image of Urizen, who represented the creator in Blake’s own sprawling cosmology.

Using a slew of quick edits, neato effects, and a heaping helping of total weirdness, “Peacebone” by Animal Collective is one of the most polarizing videos of the year. Regardless of whether you love it or are repulsed by it—you’ll probably be a little of both—this video manages to catch the artistic intrigue, the storytelling tendencies, and, again, the total weirdness of Animal Collective in the year they finally broke into the mainstream.

“Atlas” by Battles isn’t necessarily the most artsy or storytelling or fantastical video—almost strangely, it actually features the band playing the song all the way through—but despite this, there’s an energy here. Maybe it’s the whole crazy rotating glass room of mirrors, or the spaciness of it, or maybe it’s just the fact that this is some ripping rock and roll, but this video can get the heart pumping.

Interviews: Battles‘ John Stanier. or Fiery Furnaces‘ Matthew Friedberger.

Album Reviews: Random Spirit Lover by Sunset Rubdown. or Night Falls Over Kortedala by Jens Lekman. or Shelter from the Ash by Six Organs of Admittance. or Love Is Simple by Akron/Family. or Liars by Liars. or Widow City by Fiery Furnaces. or In the Vines by Castanets.

Concert Reviews: Joanna Newsom. or Of Montreal. or Cat Power. or Final Fantasy. or Explosions in the Sky. or MGMT. or Ocote Soul Sound.

Granted, the concept for Blonde Redhead’s “Top Ranking” video isn’t particularly striking—one second per pose—but the cachet of its sole actress makes this effort one of the year’s most intriguing. Miranda July, known for her acclaimed work in film and literature, is this video’s center of attention.

“Elephant Gun” by Beirut is one of those videos where a whole lot of stuff is going on and you can’t really assume that it’s supposed to make sense. That said, a lot of it is fun to watch, from rubber elephant noses to the ocean to euro-partying. And we all know euro-partying is video-worthy.

Interviews: Battles‘ John Stanier. or Fiery Furnaces‘ Matthew Friedberger.

Album Reviews: Random Spirit Lover by Sunset Rubdown. or Night Falls Over Kortedala by Jens Lekman. or Shelter from the Ash by Six Organs of Admittance. or Love Is Simple by Akron/Family. or Liars by Liars. or Widow City by Fiery Furnaces. or In the Vines by Castanets.

Concert Reviews: Joanna Newsom. or Of Montreal. or Cat Power. or Final Fantasy. or Explosions in the Sky. or MGMT. or Ocote Soul Sound.

* * *

When I say we walk to the store to buy the things we need
this is a metaphor
for that first morning glance

when eyelids separate and in floods
what survived another improbable night. When I say

the undrinkable oceans are there for a reason
I mean that is why I beg
for a safe passage through the haunted cellars of childhood.

When I say the crocodile is the most natural mother this means
be very still, and rest your head on my shoulder.

———————————————————————————

[this poem originally appeared in the Spring 2007 issue of Salamander]

What happens at #7?

How are the nerve impulses “received and heard as sound” by the brain?

Also, why?

Image courtesy of Audiology Associates.

* * *

The earth here is attached to a box. Dirt and cedar,

the difference is too little to mention. At the sky

he throws stone after stone, dodging their fall.

This is his way to share, a shoeprint of soot

on the carpet, running down a road with no middle.

Swimming, he takes consolation: beneath the sea

it never rains—the sea goes down just

as it goes across, far far down and far far across.

If this continues, drowning will feel ordinary—

no one will remember it’s there, surrounding

his mother, who’s nowhere to be found.

Certainly, like a puddle he will run and run.

In the chaos of the sunrise, his cluttering about

is almost normal: when the earth is all dried up,

he will be either his mother’s garden or some spice.

———————————————————————————

[This poem originally appeared in the Fall 2006 issue of Phoebe]

Note: This is part two of a many-parted series discussing practical issues revolving around the family, such as the effects of suburbanization and corporatization on family happiness, divorce as a social phenomenon, the frailties of inner-city households, and the role of the father. No sources will be cited, but they do exist, somewhere. The ideas and thoughts proposed in this series are rhetorical and do not necessarily reflect the beliefs of Tier 3.

Economically, the married benefit because they don’t have to have two of everything—the cost of living can be split and two people in a partnership can live off of the rough equivalent of a person and a half’s spending. Also, children greatly benefit for a number of obvious reasons, most notable being that they have two consistent and emotionally invested people to look up to rather than one. Representing the one primary economic drawback to marriage is the depression of married women’s wages—is this because the males who usually hold leadership roles in the workforce frown upon women who are no longer “on the market?” This is quite possibly a factor, though that rationale would seem to posit too simple an answer. A more likely explanation is that married women, especially after having children, devote such a considerable portion of their time to family that investing in their money-making ability drops on the priority list.

Beyond the practical and community benefits, marriage does result in lessened autonomy for both individuals in the relationship. The success of the marriage unit takes precedence over the selfish desires of either party involved, and although this sacrifice of control is a sacrifice willingly accepted, it is a sacrifice nonetheless. Social theorists have argued that marriage is an institute of social control, and there is little room to argue, especially in cases where the marriage fosters an unequal partnership in which the man has final say on major decisions. Although this most likely is considerably less of an issue than it used to be, it had been thought (but was then disproved) that children can limit the sense of control women have because of the time they require; also, the act of shaping a young mind can be classified as less a position of power and more a position of survival. But while marriage on an interpersonal level may result in a sacrifice of control, marriage’s benefits can lead to a sense of greater control in the broad scheme; largely, this is a result of increased financial stability and the fact that two people with similar goals have more clout than one person. The issue of control becomes even more clouded when the following is considered: according to studies, a nonmarried woman, if her household income were equivalent to a married couple or a nonmarried man, would have the greatest sense of control of any of those groups. Unfortunately, due to deep-seated social prejudices and other roadblocks, nonmarried women usually do not attain that income. Also strikingly unfortunate is that married women rate lower on tests gauging control than any of the aforementioned groups, in spite of their increased financial wherewithal.

Ultimately, the studies regarding marriage, cohabitation, and raising children—as well as all the other angles from which you can direct attention to the modern family construct—are frustratingly inconclusive. For every result that is found, a new question must be asked. For now, this one: can humankind, with all of its inherent imperfections, ever make the union between two people a purely positive experience?

Brian Brown is a freelance photographer based out of Austin, Texas. See more of his work here.

So there’s this band. They’re called Battles, and they’re getting pretty damn big pretty damn fast. The reason for this burgeoning bigness is at least three-fold: their critically-adored debut album Mirrored, the YouTube sensation known as the “Atlas” video (watch it after the jump), and, not least of all, their ferociously energetic live show. While there’s no doubting that their music can be a bit challenging, and isn’t for the faint of heart, this is one of those bands you just know is going to get huge.

At Battles’ sonic center is John Stanier, a former member of Helmet who could be seen destroying the drums at Fun Fun Fun Fest with an impressive combination of machine-like precision and animalistic stamina. We got a chance to talk to John about the (undesirable) genre ascribed to Battles, the band’s investment that’s really starting to pay off, the future, and the most difficult question to answer during an interview.

So you just finished talking to some Australians?

I just did two really lame interviews, super horrible interviews, like “Are you happy that you’re being well-received?” Of course I’m fucking happy.

Like, do you know how to play the drums.

Yeah, you know.

I’d read around and I’ve heard some rumors that you’re getting kind of sick of this classification, so I just wanted to hear your—

Math rock?

Yeah, math rock.

The M-word. Yeah, we never liked that. That was lame since day one.

Who came up with that shit anyway?

To be honest, I think it was the fucking English. I think the fucking English press did it. It’s always their fault, one way or another, but I think they—because to me, it’s such a nineties word. Like that’s a really old word, isn’t it? Seems I’ve been hearing math rock in indie circles since the early to mid nineties.

If you had to describe your music, what term do you think you would use?

Big time party music. Anything but math rock.

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Evening: the glass is just half, the history
is half,
the grass is green only in patches

and the hills stand up hunched
like people waiting in line—

behind one cloud, a mountaintop
like a tooth—

and a man arrives home
after so many years.

Beyond the mountaintop

the crossing light of the evening
cuts the air

and he can see his leaving

in the cups his hands form
above the brow.
He answers no questions but his own

and if he wanted
he could be anyone.

___________________________________________

[this poem, in largely different fashion, originally appeared in the Spring 2007 issue of Lilies & Cannonballs]

Say you like to meditate. Say you like to sit in a room and think real hard and then not think at all. Say you like a little sound in the background to help keep that head of yours on straight. Say you don’t mind some vocals, but not too many, some jangling now-it’s-folksy/now-it’s-noodling guitar, maybe a dash of sometimes- shimmery/sometimes-bombastic drumming to toy with your heart rate. Say you pop in the new Six Organs of Admittance album, expecting to get exactly what you’re looking for. Say you find something that upsets the Big Mind just a little more than you wanted.

And that’s how Shelter from the Ash, due next Tuesday from Drag City, shakes expectations. By relying on Ben Chasny’s guitar and comforting (though spare) vocals to craft subtle, beautiful, and haunting ragas, Six Organs has developed a fine reputation as a western band in touch with eastern musical roots—though their sound is often referred to as “psychedelic,” the more appropriate term is “contemplative.” And Six Organs of Admittance, despite that troubling mouthful of a name, have used their unmistakably thoughtful sound to produce a satisfying LP every year for the past six years, and while Shelter from the Ash follows in those albums’ footsteps, it walks slightly outside their sonic and thematic similarities and into something a bit uneven.

With the help of a small army of guest stars, including Matt Sweeney (of Superwolf and Zwan fame) and members of Comets on Fire and Magic Markers, Shelter from the Ash creates a sense of dispossession and paranoia, framing disturbing squall with simple melodies to create a work more uneasy than what you’d expect from this band. The album’s undoubted center and strong point is the throttling seven-minute anthem “Coming to Get You,” which—after a gentle yet cautionary two minute intro—builds into one of Six Organs’ most ferocious works. With its foreboding lyrics and a jarring drum beat rarely found in Chasny’s work, the song stands out spectacularly from the rest of the album, which features only minimal percussion and few rock trappings. But it is in this disparity that one of Shelter from the Ash’s most glaring weaknesses is discovered: that, compared to “Coming to Get You,” the album’s other songs, though often rewarding in and of themselves, feel far too subtle.

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